Return to the Drowned Guppy

A few days of cleaning, rearranging furniture and turning your parents’ house into your house and you feel like a break. A few drinks somewhere else sounds good. You remember the Drowned Guppy and Krystal and decide to visit that pub again.

Krystal spots you as soon as you come in.

“Well, if it isn’t the new history teacher at St Perpetua’s,” she greets you. She leans in to kiss your cheek. You return the kiss.

“You heard.”

“Heard? Guess whose details I was adding to the network this morning? Let me get you a celebratory drink.”

You let her buy the first round and then allow her to escort you to an empty table.

“You left a big impression on Layla,” Krystal continues. “The things she was saying about you.”

“Layla? Who’s Layla?”

“The receptionist.” Oh, you remember her, with her tight blouse holding in her large breasts and her tight skirt accentuating her thighs and ass. “I think she’s taken a particular dislike to you. But don’t take it personally, she doesn’t like men, if you know what I mean. I think she’d rather the school was some big, sapphic playground. No men at all. Not even the old codgers I have to work with, let alone a young and vigorous man like you.” She laughs at her own statement, and her breasts jiggle as if attempting to escape the confines of her bra. She’s wearing the same red V-neck top you’d seen her in previously. The one that provides a great vision of her cleavage.

“Enough about her, let’s celebrate your new job.” Krystal raises her glass to your new job, and you clink your glass with hers. Then she’s off, telling you all the secrets of St Perpetua’s, all the gossip to be had. It’s hard to keep track, especially as you know none of the people she talks about.

Except the headmistress. “Very aloof,” Krystal intones. “I mean she’s always been aloof, but this last year she’s been positively detached. Before she at least was on top of her job, but even that’s gone by the wayside. Layla’s been taking more and more of her role, virtually all the administration. I don’t know whether she’s lost interest in her job, or there’s something wrong with her. Whatever it is, she’s not saying. Thought she might have handed in her notice until she phoned me up a month ago and told me she’d sacked Miss Wandering and I needed to remove her from the network asap.”

And the head of History. “Mrs Oversight. She’s a very clever woman, but she’s waiting for retirement. Her children have flown the nest. Her husband is something important in local politics. And she used to be very busy in the school activities, especially the sports. But age is creeping up with her. She can’t do the sports anymore, except from the sidelines, and I don’t think that appeals to her. I know she’s enquired about early retirement.”

You buy another round to ease the conversation. Then there’s a third and a fourth. Krystal gets louder and touchier with each round. Her hands touch your knees, brush your chest, cups your chin when she wants to stare into your eyes. She’s constantly shifting, and each move accentuates her vast bosom, her large ass, her swaying hips, her smooth legs, her plump and kissable lips.

She watches you finish your fourth pint. She looks at her own empty glass before looking at you again.

“We could have another round, or do you want to come back to my place for a nightcap?”